


Day Three: Catalyst

by rizahawkaye



Series: Royai Week 2017 [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Funny, Love, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizahawkaye/pseuds/rizahawkaye
Summary: Roy can’t tell what the catalyst is, but he has an idea that it may be that damned towel.





	Day Three: Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> I am really loving Royai Week. Not just bc it’s all about two characters I’ll cherish more than my first born child, but bc I’m really getting to play w my writing style and it’s so much fun.

Roy shifts uncomfortably in the back seat of his newly-issued military vehicle. He grumbles to himself about how stuffed he feels seated between Falman and Fuery. He knew it would be this way, and he mentally makes a note to mention his discomfort to his Colonel when given the chance. He had been against this thing, opting for an older model until he was informed by a member of his new administration that this particular vehicle is the "safest on the market." Roy had thought to himself that it was also the ugliest, but Colonel Hawkeye had insisted upon its use. “But it’s completely black and shaped like a banana,” he had whined to her. “Just approve the damn cars, sir,” she had told him, and so he did. He bought a case of them on the government's dime, albeit reluctantly.

Führer Mustang is a powerful man, but he is not a stupid one, and making a personal safety decision that directly contradicts the opinion of his Colonel was something a stupid man would do.

Roy rolls his head back against his seat and groans. He feels as though his thighs are marinating in sweat against a faux leather that does nothing to buffer the transfer of heat from the sun to the seats to his body. I’m the Führer, he thinks to himself, growing increasingly aggravated by the number of people in his car _breathing_ and eating up his air. “It shouldn’t take three cars of armed men to get me to Colonel Hawkeye’s front door,” he says aloud.

"Führer,” Havoc, Roy’s chauffeur-slash-bodyguard-slash-best friend, turns his head to peer at Roy through the rear view mirror. "I still feel like having you out during the day of your inauguration is only the slightest bit unsafe, and this level of protection is the bare minimum, sir."

“This day is for the Colonel too,” Roy says, feeling defensive of his decision to forgo the preliminary dinner party traditionally held in a new Führer's honor. "The Emperor of Xing will be there, sir," an advisor had told him. "We're already acquainted," Roy had replied. "I want to pick my Colonel up for the ceremony itself, I don't want to be holed up in some palace dining hall with swarms of people who care more about their free Amestrian meal than they do about my inauguration."

“With all due respect, sir, can’t Colonel Hawkeye escort herself?” Breda asks. He has his elbow on the passenger side door and his gun laying in his lap with his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “It’s not like you to treat her like a date or something.”

Roy huffs out one chuckle and says, “I’m not treating her like a date, Breda, but this day is for her too.”

“Yeah, you’ve already said so, sir,” Havoc says.

"Then stop pressing me about it," Roy snaps as he folds his arms over his chest like a child. "It's happening."

It's all happening, he thinks. His decades of constantly abandoning a life he wanted with a woman he wanted more were finally giving birth to the one thing that would administer to him everything he'd ever craved. He thinks back to Grumman's retirement, to his, "Roy, I'm putting your name in the hat." He thinks back to the announcement, the inadequate car forgotten as he remembers his Colonel's smile, and her soft, "We did it, sir." He would have kissed her then, but there were tears in her eyes and he'd been too caught up with fighting the urge to wipe his thumbs over her cheeks.

"Führer," Havoc says, jerking the car into park and Roy out of his memories. "We're here."

"So we are," Roy says, tipping his head to peer out the window at Riza's shabby apartment complex. She'll be out of there soon, he thinks. "Please get out Falman, I need to breathe."

"Right," Falman says, fumbling with the door. "Sorry, sir."

Roy follows Falman out of the musty car and into the light of the day. He takes a moment to twist his arms behind his back and shake out the kinks in his joints before setting a foot on the first step up a short staircase.

“It might be unsafe, sir.” Havoc juts his arm out in front of Roy, who just swats him away.

“You almost clotheslined me, Havoc, and this is Hawkeye,” Roy tells him. “I’ll be back in a minute, you can wait that long for me. I’m just going to pick her up.”

Havoc eyes his Führer uncertainly, but says, “All right, sir, I’ll be waiting here at the bottom of the stairs for you,” he cocks his gun and clicks his heels together before slipping a cigarette between his teeth and gesturing for other guards to exit their vehicles. “Just pick her up, Führer."

Roy nods and continues his climb up the stairs. “I’m just going to pick her up," he tells himself.

(He was only supposed to pick her up.)

He raps on her door once, twice, three times. He waits patiently for a few minutes with the heat of the summer sun bearing down on him and his new, star-studded military jacket. He wants to be in her apartment, where he can hear the A/C running through her thick front door. He wipes the sweat away that's forming on his forehead with the back of his hand. “Colonel?” He calls. Havoc hears him and says, “She not there, sir?"

“She’s here,” Roy replies. He wraps his fingers around her doorknob. “I’m going inside." He presses onward into her apartment, shutting the door to muffle Havoc’s protests. After depositing his heavy military jacket on one of Riza's small dining chairs, he circles around in her living room, thinking of all the ways he's going to tease her about how under-furnished it still is.

“Ah,” he says, stretching his arms above his head to dry the sweat that had pooled underneath them. He's getting ready to call for his Colonel just before she wanders into the living room carrying a towel, and wearing nothing. He watches her in bewildered awe for a moment with his hands still outstretched in the air. He's wondering how she hasn't noticed him, how she could have possibly missed the sound of someone entering her home. He's mildly concerned that she could be so unobservant in her own home that he hums, "Uh," loudly enough to catch her attention.

“F-Führer,” she stammers at him, her face flushing. She tries to curl her arms over her breasts; she wraps the towel around her frame. “What are you doing in here, sir?”

“I’m here to pick you up,” Roy says, finally lowering his arms. He lets his eyes flit over her form. Her towel is too short, he thinks.

“You’re an hour early, sir,” she chastises. Roy notices she hasn't moved, hasn't backed out of his view. “Who just lets themselves into someone else’s home?”

“Who leaves their front door unlocked while they shower?” He challenges. "Frankly, Colonel, I'm a little alarmed."

Riza glowers at him. Water drips off her hair onto her shoulders. The towel stops only just above her thighs, Roy notices. Absolutely, entirely, aggravatingly too short, he affirms. He takes a step toward her.

“Führer,” she reminds him, determined. She doesn't step away.

He knows he should back off but something about her, about Riza Hawkeye, about his sharpshooting bodyguard, about his Colonel standing wet and naked in front of him had flipped a switch in his brain.

(Or somewhere else.)

She needs to lock her door, Roy thinks. She's glaring at him, but her feet are planted firmly on her floor and he swears she's swaying toward him. Don't touch her, he tells himself, but there was something in the air that implored him to do just that. Something about her amber eyes framed by her soaking hair, something about that _Führer's_ jacket hanging on her chair pushes him to reach out and run his thumb over her lips as his other hand creeps up her neck. When she doesn't protest, when she so graciously gives him permission to keep going, he pulls her chin up and hovers his lips over hers.

He gives himself just a second to say, “Is this okay, Colonel?”

His Colonel shakes her head at him, but her hands migrate from her towel and her fingers clench his arms. She's pushing herself up on her toes, he realizes, trying to touch her lips to his.

He grins as he moves back.

“How long’s it been?” He asks her.

“Führer,” she reminds him again, less determined, probably hoping he'll make a rational decision for her. Her voice is feathery, though, and her eyelids are fluttering. He can feel her heart beating wildly against his fingertips.

“Years,” he answers for her, almost in a growl, suddenly aware of the fact himself. “Is this okay, Colonel?” He asks again. “I won’t kiss you until you tell me I can.”

She answers him by yanking the collar of his shirt down and pressing her lips to his. He takes her face in his hands like he had wanted to when “Führer” was first tacked onto his name and he closes the gap between their bodies. She's quick to pull his tucked shirt from the hem of his slacks. She runs her hands under it and over his chest, her nails dragging lightly along the sensitive skin just above his belt. He groans into her shoulder.

“You have got to lock your door next time."

He whips her frustratingly short towel off and tosses it onto the floor. He slides his hand down her thigh, grips her there, then hoists her leg around his hip. She fumbles with his belt but he isn't patient enough to wait for her, not after that car ride, not after all those decades. He grips her wrist in one hand, and unclasps his belt with the other. He pushes her back into a wall and pins her with his forearms on either side of her head.

She's catching her breath when he presses himself into her.

She's catching her breath, but it gets caught in her throat when she feels him against her.

“Führer,” she whimpers.

“Ah, don’t call me that,” he growls.

"It's what you are," she tells him as she nips at his bottom lip.

"It is," he agrees, fully aware of what she was trying to do to him. He grazes his fingers over her breasts and she inhales sharply. His palm skids across her stomach and wanders down, down, too far down, he realizes, when she arches her back and bucks into him.

She bites her lip but Roy hears it.

The most soft, most subtle moan.

"Ah," he hisses. He pulls his hand up and wraps her jaw in it. "I can't behave much longer, Colonel."

"You haven't behaved since you got here, sir," she says, a little breathless. Her voice wavers, her hands tug at the hem of his shirt.

"I'm being celebrated as the new Führer of this country in only a few hours," he rocks his hips into hers and watches her eyelids flicker. "How can I accept such a prestigious position when I know I've broken military law in the same day?"

"Then stop touching me, sir," she says, calling his bluff.

He laughs because she's the one faltering, she's the one who's chest is rising and falling with an erratic heartbeat. He takes advantage of her vulnerability and dips his head down to mumble against her shoulder, "We need to talk about the new cars you made me buy." She yanks at his shirt, ignoring his taunt, and he slips if off for her. Her hands wander around his torso, especially around the scar that lives on his side, and he kisses her neck, her cheek, her jaw line. "Also," he says. "I'm not convinced someone really lives here. I mean, who doesn't have a couch?"

She surprises him by hooking her fingers into his pants line, her hands so beautifully close. "Sir," she says. "I wasn't expecting to be here forever, and the palace is fully furnished." Her hands work at the buttons on his slacks and he grits his teeth as her knuckles ghost across the place he wants her most.

"Colonel," he warns. She drags her hands up to place them on either side his face. He sighs at her, effectively teased.

"You're a child, sir," she says. "And the cars are staying."

Two can play this game, he thinks.

He watches her as his hand treks downward again. He feels the slight arch of her back as he only barely runs a finger over that spot between her legs. When he slips one inside her and applies pressure with his thumb, however, his Colonel yelps. "Roy," she says, flinging her head back against the wall. Her pelvis instinctively cocks upward to give him a better angle. He presses further into her as her nails dig lines into his biceps. After a few wonderful seconds of Roy enjoying the way her eyes were rolling back into her head, Riza pleads, "Roy."

Different than the yelp, he thinks. Different than the whimper.

His hand retreats and he realizes he's underestimated her when she braces against the wall and wraps her other leg around him. He's peeling his slacks off with fervor when he hears Havoc at the door.

“Führer?” He pounds his fist against the heavy wood. “Is everything all right in there? I heard some yelling.” Roy leans his forehead against the wall and sighs. When he doesn't respond immediately, Havoc says, “I’m going to come in, sir!”

“Havoc, everything’s fine!” Roy bites back at him through gritted teeth. Riza releases her grip on his waist and touches down on the floor in front of him. He holds her face in place with his hands so she won't leave and says, “The Colonel and I will be out shortly.”

“All right, sir,” Havoc says. Roy can hear his heels click against the concrete as he creates space between himself and the fraternizing couple. When he feels he’s given Havoc enough time to descend the stairs, he summons strength he isn't sure he actually has and looks into Riza’s eyes. Her body is tinted pink and she doesn't move her face from his hands as he leans in to kiss her mouth, her collar bone. She places a hand on his chest and pushes him back gently.

“Führer,” she says. “I should go get dressed.”

“I’m going to fire you soon,” he says, his palms aching for her as she ducks out of his grasp. “Maybe tonight.”

“Not tonight,” she says as she reaches down for her towel and wraps it tightly around her body. “Maybe tomorrow.” She smiles at him, and he has to consciously dig his heels into the floor to keep from lunging at her. He lets out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. He grudgingly fastens his belt back onto his waist and shakes his pants out as he watches her back disappear behind her bedroom door.

“You know, I'm not done talking about the cars," he calls to her.

"Yes you are," she calls back.


End file.
